The Devil's Crayon
by bluecollarrevolver
Summary: After solving the mystery of 'The Great Game' Sherlock is absent from 221B for a few days. John gets suspicious. He then receives a text. John goes to investigate and is presented with a more dangerous Sherlock than he has ever seen.
1. Chapter 1

Unlike Sherlock, who always remained unaware of mine, or frankly anyone else's absence, I find myself unable to be so unobservant. His absence is always noticeable, especially this soon after a case.

Sometimes I swear he isn't even human. he seemed vaguely affected by the brutal death of that poor poor woman in those flats, but only because _he_ could have stopped it, because _he_ was right and _he _wasn't listened to. He is intelligent there is no denying that, but he is also hugely arrogant, and a total pain in the arse to live with. Body parts all over the place, a blatant disregard for privacy or need to sleep, the wall is still wounded with bullet holes. But for all of his faults, 221B is empty without him. And I, John Hamish Watson, the loyal sidekick, am a lot more observant than my friend would care to admit. One day he will learn to value that. I feel however in his absence, today will not be that day.

Normally I get a text, or if I'm _really_ lucky a barely worded, poorly placed note. But things just haven't been the same since that night at the pool. The night that I tried to save my best friend's life, and yet again he saved mine. I have been through war and hell and back, but never have I experienced something so… having a bomb strapped to you, _being _the bomb, the threat. It puts your life and priorities in harsh perspective. Sherlock has never looked at me the same since that night. But why? This man is a self proclaimed socio-path, how can someone so devoid of emotion actually be affected by something like this?

I can't focus in his absence. I just sat there, blinded by the darkness and emptiness of the flat. I sat in that room and found myself entering an old photograph. Life was still and his essence perfectly captured. Piles upon piles upon towers of dusty books, stacked so high that I have more than once done myself an injury trying to reach them. Luckily for him, for both of us, reaching anything is something he always did with such ease. He had an odd grace for someone of his stature. From his stupid hair to his slender fingertips, his slightly-too-tight shirts to his impeccable taste in shoes, Sherlock Holmes is, and always will be… unique. He was as his title is: the only one in the world. I felt myself turning into him, with his allergy to sunlight and normal human behaviour. I checked my phone, the light blinding me as I checked the date. The 23rd. He's been gone for two whole days. I would phone him, but he's Sherlock. He disappears. Anyone with routine, as far as he's concerned, is boring, and god forbid I should abide by the rules of the 'normal' people.

The room was once more flooded with light, and I jumped as my phone aggressively vibrated against the coffee table. _How is it 3am already?_ I blinked wearily, blankly staring at my phone, squinting as hard as I could to prevent any lasting damage to my pit pony's eyes.

Meet me in Barts. 5 Mins

SH

Barts? 3am? I swear to god this man will be the death of me…


	2. Chapter 2

I never liked that hospital. I hate hospitals altogether. So much pain, and all inflicted on the innocent and without cause - or when Sherlock has his way, the air in those places was musky and thick with the smell of illness and disease. The air was still and stagnant, and motionless still in the morgue, no doubt where I would find the great and mysterious Sherlock Holmes.

As much as I hated it in there, it has always been the one place I enjoyed watching him work. As distasteful as his hobbies often were, he was truly at home here. At least no one there could get hurt by his stupidity, cruel words or actions. Except Molly of course. I often felt so sorry for her, such a kind soul. Such a gentle soul but I don't see a world where Sherlock will ever appreciate how much he means to her, or to any of us.

Hospitals at that time of night are frightful to say the least. The only light so artificial that even the flickering seemed like something from a cheap horror film, but with no support from life or light outside, that place does become incredibly eerie. The lingering echo of my footsteps were the only thing that broke the silence, and try as I might to keep my cool it really set me on edge. I couldn't help but think Sherlock was just waiting around the corner to jump at me, or sneak up behind me and start deducing my fear, the symptoms of fear, the causes of fear and make me shake all the more violently because of it.

As I got closer to the room in which he practiced his favourite pass time I began to wonder where he was hiding. Such a showman, if there was a breakthrough in a case surely he would burst through those old double doors to as eagerly as possible boast of his brilliance? Maybe not quite a break through. For all I know, he needs to use my phone. Again.

As I pushed the door open it gave a great moan, not too dissimilar from Sherlock encountering the first sunlight of the day. The darkness of the room confused me. I could vaguely make out the outline of a body on a slab, and could smell the stench of death in the air. There wasn't enough light for it to be recognisable, but the frame was slender, and tall. I could only hope this was some kind of sick joke.

"Sherlock...this. This is not funny" I said, trying to control my shaking. I couldn't let him win this one, he'd never let me live it case scenario and he wouldn't be able to. STOP IT! I told myself. Pull yourself together you stupid man. "Sherlock, what the hell is going on?" I rushed my words, getting more and more impatient.

I heard footsteps on the lino, but they weren't Sherlock's footsteps. Chase after that man for long enough and you know what his footsteps sound like. These were the steps of a shorter man, but incredibly light on his feet. Almost like a predator - nocturnal, playful, and dangerous. I took a couple of short steps back in preparation for what could have been anything. I don't know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't this.

"Go on Sherlock...tell your little pet where you've been all this time"

My heart sank, my stomach felt like it would fall out of my mouth and fire would come burning out of my fists. The dolcet, sinister and almost musical tones were unmistakable.

Moriarty.


End file.
